Restless Night
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly does nothing but toss and turn in bed. Is there a solution to this problem? Sherlolly


Molly Hooper was having a restless night. As usual. She had always been a rather restless sleeper, but on most occasions it bothered her companions more than herself, although there were some mornings when she awoke feeling as if she had run a marathon instead of spent the night in the arms of Morpheus. At the slumber parties she had attended during her adolescence, girlfriends had refused to share a mattress with her. One who had, against all advice, finally, quite literally, kicked her out of bed just before dawn. Molly awoke on the floor with a foot sized bruise on the small of her back, and no recollection of how she had gotten it. Lovers had attempted to wrap her in their arms and stifle her tumbling to no avail. Many wound up sleeping on the couch, or leaving entirely. Her fiance, Tom, or "meat dagger", as she now thought of him thanks to an ill-advised remark at the Watsons' wedding, had made it clear that twin beds would be required after the wedding. He had gone so far as to book a honeymoon hotel which offered such an option, to the surprise of the booking agent. Even her cat, Toby, had been subjected to being bounced out of bed on occasion, and often retaliated by ambushing her throughout the following day.

The one and only person who could prevent this nocturnal rumbling and tumbling was, of course, Sherlock Holmes, and without even trying. There had been a number of occasions when the detective had used her flat as a bolthole. On the first couple of visits, he had made himself at home on her couch, but his long frame simply did not fit comfortably. Molly agreed that he needed the room to stretch out, so she offered her bed, which he immediately accepted, insisting that, as he did not want to put her out, she must share with him. It was certainly large enough to accommodate both of them comfortably, and Molly had no expectations that he was suggesting anything other than a good night's sleep. No expectations, but hopes and dreams, perhaps. After their first night in the bed together, Molly awoke to find the detective gone. The next time she saw him, two days later, she quite reasonably apologized for her restlessness, assuming that it was what had driven him away so early.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Molly. You slept soundly, and quite peacefully. I simply had to be away early, and I didn't want to disturb you."

"What about the bouncing, and kicking, and tossing and turning?"

"If I did any of that, I apologize, Molly." The man looked puzzled as he continued. "I usually sleep quite calmly. When we were children, Mycroft once assumed I had expired, and cracked a rib trying to restart my heart. Mummy damn near cracked his head, evidently trying to stop his!" He smiled at the memory of his Mummy's wrath. "And once, at uni, my roommate assumed the same thing, and tried to revive me with the 'kiss of life'. That led to an experience I haven't repeated in quite some time." And once again he smiled.

It was then that Molly Hooper realized that the mere presence of Sherlock Holmes in her bed, his nearness, his warmth, reached her on some level even in her deepest slumber, inducing such a calm state that her somnolent restlessness simply vanished. All tension was gone, and she could rest quite comfortably. She began to look forward to his visits even more than usual, and on those nights when he picked her lock and let himself in, she knew she would feel better for his visit in the morning. She never told him this, just lay in bed waiting to feel the mattress dip as he slid in next to her. He never spoke, not wanting to wake her, and she never said anything beyond "Good night, Sherlock." And they both drifted off.

But on this particular night Molly was finding it more difficult to drift off. She turned in the bed to lie on her side facing the man next to her. She could make out his outline on the moonlight coming through the window. He really was quite beautiful, she thought, if it was appropriate to apply such a term to a male. But "handsome" didn't quite cover it, in Molly's opinion. She had always found him beautiful, from the moment he had first entered the lab at St. Bart's, and certainly at this moment, as he lay in her bed, eyes closed and curls askew.

"Sherlock, why are you here?"

"Why do you ask? You've never asked before? Am I bothering you?"

 _ **On so many levels!**_ Molly thought, as she tried to keep most of those levels under control. "No, not at all. Just curious."

"If you must know, Mrs. Hudson has fallen under the spell of a silver haired exterminator who has convinced her of the possibility that we have bedbugs! He has treated, and sprayed, and fumigated 221 Baker Street to the absolute limits of human habitation. The chemicals he has used could wipe out a herd of elephants, let alone a colony of tiny parasites! I feared for my life, so I came over here to sleep."

"But how is Mrs. H faring, then?"

"She is, I imagine, happily ensconced in the bug-free bed of her exterminator!"

"Really?"

"Really, Molly. I just hope he is more competent than last month's electrician. Do you know that my bathroom light turns on or off every time Mrs. Hudson uses her electric kettle? The one good thing is I always know when a cup of tea will be readily available."

"I just hope I have her kind of sex life when I'm her age, which seems highly unlikely, as I don't seem to have it even now," the pathologist said a bit sadly.

"You don't seem to be doing so badly, Molly. Although I must say I haven't heard of any 'gentleman callers' lately, have I?"

"No, there's been a bit of a dry spell since Tom."

"Who?"

"Meat dagger."

"Ah."

The usually reserved woman never would figure out where she got the nerve to continue the conversation, but continue she did. "So, Sherlock, how long has your dry spell lasted?"

The man turned to face her, and asked with more than a little curiosity, "Why do you ask, Dr. Hooper?"

The woman began to blush furiously, grateful that it wouldn't be noticed in the dim light of the bedroom. "Just curious, I guess. I mean, we're friends, aren't we? You do have friends, you know. Good friends. Yet nobody seems to know anything about that part of your life. You said the whole Janine thing was part of a case. You identified that dominatrix without her face, but you said that was for a case, too. Mrs. Hudson thinks you and John were lovers, and John swears you're asexual. According to John's blog, Mycroft told him that the Moriarty referred to him as the iceman and you as the virgin. But nobody knows the truth…"

"Mycroft _**is**_ an iceman, Molly…"

"Does that make you a virgin, Sherlock?"

"Hardly. Nor am I asexual, or homosexual."

"But you never seem to show any interest in sex. Didn't you enjoy it?"

"On the contrary, I enjoy sex very much. It's only natural, after all. That's the way evolution has designed us. But I found the pursuit of sex to be distracting. Very much so."

"I find it difficult to believe that you had to do much pursuing, Sherlock. You're rather attractive, you know. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course you know! Women would have lined up to run their fingers through those curls."

"Perhaps. Until I opened my mouth. I am not the most socially articulate of men, Molly, as you have no doubt noticed. I am curt, abrasive, and often unkind. And most women appreciate a bit of conversation before sex, don't you agree?"

"And even a bit afterward, Sherlock, in most cases," Molly asserted.

"Enough! Why are we having this conversation, really? What on earth has gotten into you tonight?"

"Nothing, yet, but the night's still young, as they say!" Molly tried to sound a bit seductive as she mouthed the double entendre, hoping that he caught her intention, and almost dreading his response. She pressed her point even further. "And I certainly know you well enough that I don't require much seductive conversation."

"Molly…." His voice was a sort of a low rumble, almost sounding like an admonition, but his hand slowly moved to caress her hip.

"Sherlock?" she responded a bit breathlessly as he rolled over to almost cover her completely while he moved his hand slowly up her body, lingering on one breast, before tangling his fingers in her loose hair. When he moved his lips to her neck, all hope of coherent conversation was abandoned.

"Molly," Sherlock whispered huskily between nips and licks, "are you sure about this? "

"God, yes!" And she was sure. Even if it turned out to be one time, on this one night, this was what she had wanted for simply ages. She had loved this man for years, had lusted after him for possibly even longer. And now that she had found out that, contrary to popular belief, he did enjoy sex, and, as evidenced by his husky, low growls as she moved beneath him, with women, she was determined to be the woman with whom he would enjoy it. Even if he was gone in the morning.

As it turned out, it was certainly more than one time, and when Molly woke in the morning, she was surprised to find that it was in Sherlock's arms. As she stirred, the detective awakened too. Somewhat at a loss for words, all she could think to say when her gaze mean his was a simple, "Thank you."

"How polite of you, Dr. Hooper," the detective said with a sincere smile and a small snort of laughter. "I, too, was taught was taught to be appreciative when presented with a token, service, gift, or compliment. My standard, polite, response was, indeed, 'thank you'. On this occasion, though, I would have preferred the response my brother often supplied after being gifted with a piece of chocolate cake. Equally polite, of course, but a bit more expressive of the situation."

Molly couldn't help but suppress a giggle at his depiction of Mycroft and the cake. She was familiar with the elder Holmes brother's predilection for sweets. "And what was that, Sherlock?"

" 'That was delicious. May I have some more, please?' "

"It was rather delicious, wasn't it? But, I don't want to impose…"

"Again, being very polite!" He leaned in to kiss her, morning breath and all. "But, I could never characterize making love to you, Molly Hooper, as an imposition. More like another addiction. Perhaps we could become codependents?"

Molly was quick to pick up on his use of the term "making love" in place of "having sex", and couldn't help but smile. If this was a close as she was going to get romance, she would take it. But she was determined to make her position clear to him. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Codependency will work for me."

"Good, because I find that you are all that I need, and much more than I deserve, and I will try my bloody best to not be the biggest mistake of your life!" And, having said all that he could bring himself to say, he pulled her into his arms to happily continue on their newly established life of codependency. And, to Molly's mind, addiction never felt so good.


End file.
